University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Glad to escape from a circle where he found so
little attraction, Claude strolled through the streets.
Almost unconsciously, his steps wandered towards
the cabinet where he had seen the portrait. At the
door he was surprised to find in his heart a kind of
anxiety, as if he were seeking an interview with a

real person, and was fearful of a disappointment.
He entered, and made his way to the little room.
The picture was still there. No one was present.
Only a boy had greeted him as he came in, and he
was busily writing in the front shop. A stream of
afternoon sunshine fell through the window. The
object of his attention was more striking than ever.
He continued gazing with new admiration, till,
whether from the fatigue of long fixed attention, or
from a feeling of actual tenderness, he sighed as
sincerely as if about to part for ever from a real
object of affection. It was now his turn to be embarrassed,
for, at a little distance, in the doorway,
stood the figure of the young man whom he had
met before gazing intently on this same painting.
His sallow, melancholy face was shaded by a kind
of stern surprise, and his eyes were fixed attentively
on him.

Claude recovered himself in an instant, and said,

“You will perceive I am a great amateur of
painting, monsieur. I have taken a fancy to this
piece—it is so pretty. I should really like to buy
it.”

“It is not for sale, monsieur,” said the stranger,
coldly.

“Then you know something of it?”

“Only that it is private property.”

“Is it yours?”

“No, monsieur!”

“You are the artist, perhaps?”

The young man made no reply. Modesty and
poverty are so often the companions of merit, that
Claude concluded at once—from his silence, his faded
clothes, his face thinned by application, and the
bright glances of his eyes, which seemed full of the
restless fire of genius—that he was the painter.

“I must really express my admiration,” said
Claude, “not only of the singular charm of the
countenance, but of the exquisite beauty of the production
as a work of art. If it were to be bought—”

“I have told you, monsieur, that it is not to be
bought.”

“Is it a fancy piece?”

“No, monsieur. He must have a very strange
imagination who could create such a face; and it
is, I think, quite a sufficient triumph for any artist
to imitate it.”

“You will confer a favour on me, then, by telling
me the name of the original.”

“Why so, monsieur? She can be nothing to
you?”

“Very likely,” said Claude; “but—”

“The person of whom this is a feeble copy,” said
the stranger, “exists; but you would regard her
without any of the enthusiasm which you show at
the sight of her picture.”

“You speak in enigmas,” said Claude, struck
with a certain earnestness in the voice and manner
of his companion.

“She is eighty years old at present,” said the
stranger; “and this is the copy of a portrait taken
sixty-five years ago; but I interrupt you. Bon jour,
monsieur.”

“Great Heaven!” thought Claude, “how singular!
Thus fade the dreams of youth, hope, and
love. An old woman! hobbling with a crutch, perhaps,
around a silent chamber; those tender eyes
dimmed; the sweetness of that mouth gone; the
pure hue of health and youth faded; infirmity—
wrinkles—age! and, instead of joy, and hope, and
artless affection, only the traces of faded dreams—
of broken affections—of lost friends—of vanished
pleasures. Oh! vanity of the world; oh! phantoms
of life!”

And thus all his reveries at last ended in a moral,
which, being duly digested, he went to the theatre.